John Milton

And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.

And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.

And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.

And on the Tree of Life, The middle tree and highest there that grew, Sat like a cormorant.

And out of good still to find means of evil.

And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook, but delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd.

And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.